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Every time Jules fucked Lila she came away covered in glitter, like a spice cookie rolled in colored sugar. Glitter stuck to Jules’ fingers, to her lips, to her nipples, to her vulva, which was bare. So much glitter that it rimmed the bathtub in sparkly carnage and sprinkled her sheets like jism from a pixie orgie.

Lila’s body was a thick, rolling panoramic landscape of undulating curves, and when Jules sat in the audience drinking an Old Fashioned and watched Lila peel her gloves to Peggy Lee’s honey rasp, she thought of pressing Lila against the tiny bathroom sink. She saw her hands part Lila’s thick crocus-white thighs, Lila’s breath making ragged steam angels on the mirror. She imagined sliding her long brown fingers inside Lila’s cunt; she could already hear Lila’s syncopated moans grow faster and louder. She saw Lila’s wetness slick and thick coating her fingers; she always smelled like sea-foam and violets.

Watching Lila writhe in the white-hot light, Jules could already taste the faint metallic of the glitter; it felt like sweet reality.

Chelsea G. Summers gives us a rise, as blissful as it is succinct. Come back on Fridays for Flash Friction—a literary series of brief, erotic encounters.

Illustration by Melissa Dowell.